


Salt and Iron

by cheerynoir



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Gen, If You Think This Has A Happy Ending You Haven't Been Paying Attention, Jeyne just - poor poor Jeyne, Jeyne just wants to go home, M/M, POV Third Person, Possibly Pre-Slash, Present Tense, Robb is stuck with the consequences, Robb panics enough for like six people and all their dogs, The Hunger Games AU no one asked for, Theon Greyjoy makes terrible decisions, Theon has terrible coping mechanisms, for real because when you're going to die soon you may as well get hella laid, now with porn!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:56:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4147326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheerynoir/pseuds/cheerynoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not even a decision, in the end.</p><p>(The odds are never in our favor).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reaping

The Northern District is cold on the best of days. Today, the day of the Reaping, the air is so cold is hurts to breathe.

Theon watches with some bitter, petty satisfaction as their Capitol Representative has to blot her bloody nose before she starts calling names. It’s a small thing, but it makes him smirk all the same. He’s been smirking since he was brought to this Godsforsaken waste at nine, after–

_Keep it in the past, Greyjoy._

“-the odds be ever in your favor. Ladies first!”

The crowd is silent. The Island District had been a career district, Theon remembered, a bolt of lightning out of the blue. There had been an undercurrent to every Reaping - the eldest would volunteer for the younger, all for blood and glory and riches. The North is different. The North is silent and resigned to the tradition.

“Jeyne Poole!”

Theon’s nowhere near Sansa, but he hears her cry, like a bird struck by an arrow mid-flight. High and sharp and inconsolable. Jeyne is silent; a daughter of the North through and through.

She’s shaking so hard she nearly loses her footing when she mounts the stage. Her face is white, utterly bloodless, her lips a thin line. She’s thirteen and pretty. No one volunteers for her.

There’s a twinge in his chest that Theon pointedly ignores. He takes a deep breath and the air stabs at the back of his throat. He doubts she will last long. A few days, maybe longer if she can hide. He hope when she dies, it will be quick and painless. A kindness rarely seen in the Games, but he can hope. 

Boys next - that’s the way of it. He wonders who it’ll be. He’s eighteen this year - _last chance_ , he thinks, wry and smiling like it doesn’t hurt. The last son of Balon Greyjoy, leader of the failed rebellion. _It’d be good TV_ , he admits to himself.

He braces himself, heart tripping in his throat, waiting for his name, but-

“Robb Stark!”

It’s so much worse. 

Robb’s a kid, still - fifteen, and still a boy. He looks it, in that instant: Theon finds him in the crowd effortlessly. Wide blue eyes, tousled auburn curls, his mouth half-open in surprise. He looks – scared, for a second, and then resigned. He looks around, trying to reassure his siblings with a trembling smile.

He wouldn’t last two days in a Game.

It’s not even a decision.

_(I can’t watch him die.)_

“I volunteer,” says Theon.


	2. Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon's never known how to say goodbye. Robb's not much better.
> 
> They manage. Sort of.

He doesn’t expect anyone to see him off. After he’s lead from the town square to the Justice Building, what he expects is ten minutes alone in a sparsely-furnished room, to ruminate on his poor life-choices before he was shipped off to the Capitol to die.

For a Stark. 

Gods be good, he was fucked, wasn’t he?

But he’s barely in the door before its being thrown open again. Theon has a head on Robb, but he flinches back in surprise all the same when the other boy pushes into his space. His mouth is trembling, Theon notes, pressed thin and flat. But his back is straight and he glares at Theon like he’s insulted Catelyn Stark in front of him.

He’s a boy, just a boy, angry and scared. It doesn’t quell the surge of resentment that washes through Theon, but it helps him understand. Can’t you just be grateful? Fuck me, Stark, can’t you give me that much?

But the corner of his mouth quirks, lopsided. “Hey,” he says.

Robb lashes out and pushes him, palms flat on his chest. Theon staggers, keeps on his feet, and sways upright again, eyebrows up in wordless reprimand: is that _really_ the best you’ve got? To rub salt in the wound, he takes a moment to smooth the wrinkles from his shirt. He likes this shirt. He likes the way Robb’s eyes glint when he’s angry, too.

“What in the seven hells was that?” Robb asks. “Theon, what are you – why – you have to take it back!”

Theon laughs. He can’t help it. It’s a high, sharp sound, and he reigns it in before he ends up cackling hysterically. Wouldn’t do any good for his last impression to be a bad one.

“Take it back? Robb, I don’t think they’d let me.”

“They have to. It’s not fair – they called my name. I should go. It’s my duty, to go.”

He fixes Robb with a look, so deeply unimpressed he can’t find the words at first. Robb glowers back.

“Leave it alone,” Theon snaps. “You have family here, and I doubt your mother would want to watch you get gutted on national television.” Robb bites at his lower lip, and it’s not insecurity as guilty resignation: of course he doesn’t want to put his mother through watching him die. It’d been a low blow, Theon knows that. Robb should be used to those by now. But Theon softens his words, as much as he can, summons up a smirk. Practice has made that easy, at least. “Besides, you think I’d let you get all the glory? I’m a Greyjoy, it’s in our blood.”

It’s a weak defense. Robb shakes his head a little, but doesn’t contest him. Good. 

You’re a Greyjoy – you die in grand, futile gestures and leave wreckage in your wake. Theon doesn’t know what he’d do if Robb verbalized it. The fact that the thought occurred to him at all is worrying, and Theon tries to smother it.

“I don’t. I don’t like this. I hate this,” says Robb, and breaks off. He rubs at his face, grinding the heels of his hands into his Tully-blue eyes. “Here.”

Startled, Theon watched as Robb works a ring off his thumb – a heavy-looking thing of bronze and black iron, given by a grim-faced father on his last name day – and holds it out. His hand is steady.

“Take it,” Robb says. “I want you to…”

“What? No.” Theon takes a step back. A small one, for breathing space. “Robb, that ring is older than the Games, what the fuck.”

“Take it,” Robb says again. His hand is steady and his voice doesn’t break, but only just. “You’re allowed a token, something from home, when you go. I want you to – just take it, alright? Theon, please.”

He’s never really been able to say no to Robb, so he takes the ring. It doesn’t fit on any of his fingers, so Theon just stuffs it in his pocket. The metal is heavy and warm, there at the centre of his palm. 

“Seven hells, Stark,” he says. “No need to get weepy. I’ll bring it back.”

One way or another, he’s sure. The Districts get their dead back. But Robb smiles like Theon just promised to win the Games in his honour, or abolish them all together.

(Robb’s always been soft. He’s never liked the Games, always shut his eyes and turned away when the television screens lit the town square in a wash of blue light and gore. There was tradition, and then there was slaughter, he would mutter.)

Robb’s just opening his mouth when the door opens. 

“Time to go,” says a Peacekeeper. Jory, he remembers.

Theon straightens up and glances at Robb, who stares back, unblinking. Theon doesn’t know what his own face looks like in that moment, but he hopes that he doesn’t look quite as – as raw and broken-open as Robb does now. 

“See you,” says Theon, because he’s never known how to say goodbye properly.

He turns away and takes a step, two, before Robb hits him like an avalanche. It takes him a second to realize that Robb is hugging him, not trying to crush the air out of his lungs. He’s always been tactile. Theon lets out a slow breath and hugs him back, a hair too tight. Robb is warm and solid and real, there, in his arms. Theon shuts his eyes for a second and breathes, just breathes. 

Jory clears his throat after a couple of minutes.

Reluctantly, Theon shakes off Robb’s grip and steps back.

“See you,” says Robb. His voice breaks half-way through. Theon gives him the benefit of the doubt – puberty, he tells himself, and ignores the way Robb’s eyes shine in the light and the way his face flushes blotchily. 

Theon forces a smile and tips his head a little in acknowledgement. The words won't come; his throat's all locked up even without the lump he's trying to breathe around.

He follows Jory out.

He only realizes after he’s seated on the most opulent train he’s ever seen that he’s clutching at the ring in his pocket with a shaking fist. His palm stings where the metal digs into his flesh.

He looks to Jeyne, settled beside him and still as a corpse. Shocked into stillness, maybe. There’s a blue ribbon in her dark hair that hadn’t been at the Reaping. 

Sansa, he realizes. Sansa had been wearing a ribbon like that this morning when Theon had loitered in the Stark’s kitchen. It seems he wasn't the only one with a token.

She catches him looking, her face wet with tears. “What do we do now?” she asks, and her voice is as unsteady the hands she has fisted in her skirt. She reaches out jerkily and catches his hand, clutching it tightly. He grips back, feeling the helpless frustration and the fear growing cold in his stomach. He’s doing this – he’s really doing this. They’re moving, hurdling down a set track toward a final resting place, and there’s no way to stop it.

No take backs.

Her fingernails score his skin and he just swallows hard and tangles their fingers together instead. He takes a breath. Two.

Her hands are colder than his.

“Survive,” says Theon.

It’s a start, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so apparently there was more to this story than I thought - and it'll continue to grow. What did you think?
> 
> Thanks a million to [squidprinceofwinterfell](http://squidprinceofwinterfell.tumblr.com/) for looking it over.
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr](http://www.cheerynoir.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


	3. Meeting the Mentor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions are had, strategy is discussed, and Theon copes in a rational manner. Well, in a manner of speaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait - this is unbeta'd. Let me know what you think?

Barbrey Dustin won the Games fifteen years ago at seventeen, as Barbrey Ryswell. Theon remembers watching it, in the vague, gossamer way he remembers most of his childhood on Pyke. 

(He remembers being held on his mother’s lap and the smell of her hair, the way her hands were nothing but callouses but gentle, so gentle. He remembers feeling very small. He remembers the blood and the screaming and he remembers that when he hid his face in her shoulder, she petted his hair and hummed a lullaby until he stopped shaking. The Islands may have been a career district, but toddlers were toddlers – he might have dreamed her saying that, invented it in the wake of his father’s hard, disgusted look. He hopes it happened.)

They meet Barbrey Dustin when she sweeps into their car and takes them in with narrowed eyes. She’s a tall woman, dressed in black from head to heel. If he could find the spit to wet his throat, Theon might have made some jape about how their fashion sense matched. As it is, he merely drops his gaze and Jeyne’s hand and straightens up. He is taller than her, he notes with some satisfaction – just barely, but it was there.

Her mouth presses into a thin, unimpressed line, and he notes that there are the beginnings of wrinkles at the corners, despite her age. Her hair is grey and brown, pulled up and away from her sharp-featured face. She might have been striking once, but there is no room for softness in her now.

“So you’re the cannon-fodder this year,” she says with a sniff. Judged and found lacking – Theon would like to say he wasn’t used to it. “I don’t expect much.”

Jeyne sobs and for a heartbeat, he regrets letting go of her.

Barbrey turns on her heel in a swirl of black skirts. “Come on, then. There’s food, if you want it.”

Theon can’t remember a time he felt less like eating, but he falls into step all the same. He knows an order when he hears it. Jeyne, after a moment, shuffles along in their wake.

As it turns out, the only one eating is their Capitol Representative. She’s a massive woman, young and smiling, now that her nosebleed has stopped. Bubbly, Theon thinks, and stares down into his wine glass. The liquid is as dark as blood, and his stomach turns uneasily at the thought.

“Walda,” she introduces herself, beaming. “Walda Frey – no, sorry! It’s Bolton, now, silly me. I just got married a month ago – it’s quite an adjustment.”

Theon drains his glass – it’s sweet, pleasantly so – and reaches for the bottle. 

It’s an afterthought, but he pours Jeyne a glass as well. The representative – Walda – frowns at him, and he only stares back.

“If she’s old enough to die for entertainment, she’s old enough to drink,” says Barbrey, and Jeyne flinches. Theon takes another mouthful of wine and shoots her a look. His foot nudges her under the table. Jeyne takes up her cup. She nudges him back.

Silence settles, and Theon seriously considers drinking the bottle just to make this dinner more palatable. Maybe this would be easier to deal with if his head was swimming.

“Are you going to help us?” Jeyne asks at last. She addresses her plate, and nibbles at a carrot swimming in butter.

Theon doesn’t know which of the women she’s addressing – he can’t see either being much use, really – but it’s a moot point.

“Of course!” says Walda. She pats Jeyne’s hand and the ring on her finger glimmers, more expensive than anything you could find in the North. Theon touches the ring in his pocket and stubbornly thinks of nothing, nothing at all. “Silly girl, that’s what I’m here for. To help you adjust to the Capitol, and to see you through your games afterward.”

Barbrey just looks at them both again, and her frank, assessing gaze makes Theon’s skin crawl. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says at last. “You, girl – Jeyne, is it? – you’re a pretty face and a soft touch. Sponsors might take pity on an innocent. Fans might roots for an underdog. You,” and her dark eyes flick to Theon. The corner of her mouth turns up very slightly. “You’re going to be easier. Volunteers from the North are rare, even if you are the son of a traitor and not a Northerner truly. The fact that you stepped in for a _Stark_ , well. That might cause some problems. Most tend to think that the Starks can handle themselves.”

Leaders of Districts usually could, Theon doesn’t bite out. He gets the idea that sarcasm isn’t the best choice at this point. But Robb wasn’t a leader, yet – he wasn’t even a man.

Theon winces, bites his tongue, and pointedly does not mention that she wept for the world to see when Brandon Stark, her fellow tribute, was lynched during her Games. She wept, he reminded himself, and then she ran down and trampled four people on the back a horse-mutation she’d half-broke. She took the Games for her own that year when everyone just expected her to fling herself off the nearest cliff just to be with her lover again. 

(They still talk about it, Varys and Baelish – the voices of the Games – every few years. How touching Barbrey’s win was, how tragic young love was when cut short. How absolutely sensational the sex-scene had been, a real first for the Hunger Games. The last time it had been on the table, viewers had eaten it up, going by the live audience’s reactions. 

Robb had always looked away then, jaw set. His eyes would catch Theon’s and they’d look silver in the pale light, silver rather than blue, and Theon would smirk and needle him, just to see some of the tension drain from Robb’s back. Robb would hook an arm around his shoulders, easier than breathing, and Theon would slump a little just to make it easier for him, press a little closer, and Robb would roll his eyes and say –)

“Then again,” Barbrey goes on, idle. Theon jerks himself back to the here-and-now with a start, “everyone loves an unrequited love story.”

Theon’s stomach drops into his boots, and Barbrey Dustin smiles, thin and sharp. It’s all Theon can do to keep from choking on his wine.

“Oh,” says Walda. She claps her hands like an excited child, “Oh, what a wonderful idea – people will love it! Sponsors, the audience – how fantastic.”

_Fuck._

He thinks he hears Jeyne smother a laugh, swallowing it down with her first sip of wine. He can’t bring himself to glare at her. His face feels warm, suddenly, and he can’t tell if the wine has all gone to his head or if it’s something even worse.

He’d thought he’d lost any sense of shame years ago.

He didn’t miss the feeling, he discovers. But it’s not just shame that curdles in his stomach – there’s a dread he doesn’t want to think about, the damp chill of cold sweat as it breaks out under his arms and across his brow.

_No,_ he thinks, panicky. _No, I can’t. Please don’t. I can’t be that guy – I can’t be besotted for the world to see. Please. It’s so much easier to lie. I can’t. I --_

He drains his glass again and doesn’t even look at his heaped plate. “Will it get me sponsors?” he asks, fixing a level gaze at Barbrey. He’s distantly pleased with himself that he manages to ask so directly, so simply. Without anything in his head spilling into his voice – it’s a skill he’s good at, but he didn’t think he was this good. “Playing up this angle? Will it keep me – us – alive?”

“Perhaps,” says Barbrey Dustin. She slips a miniscule piece of roast into her mouth. Blots her thin, colourless lips with a linen napkin. In the space between her words, the train rocks a little in its track, the china swaying and clinking.in its cabinets It sounds a little like the bells that ring in the sept for the Seven – Theon grimaces at the memory.

“Perhaps,” she says again, thoughtful. “I’ll see what I can do, Greyjoy. But for now, you both should rest. It’s going to be a long day, tomorrow.”

Jeyne rises before he does, ever-obedient. When Theon finds his feet, he keeps to them, and lets his shoulders slump.

“Good night,” trills Walda. “Sweet dreams!”

When he leaves the car to pace the floor of his assigned compartment, Theon brings the bottle with him.


	4. The Competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Well,_ thinks Theon. _This is going to suck._
> 
> ( **Warnings:** there is a description of a graphic death by wildfire, a mention of humans being gutted and left to die, and general backstory for the Greyjoy Rebellion in this new context. Also, a panic attack/flashback episode that Theon pretends didn't happen.)

_Bless them with salt. Bless them with stone. Bless them with steel._

They are old words. Island words. Pyke’s words. But they come to Theon as he watches the taped Reaping on the flat-screen television in his compartment. The rest of the prayer is like silt at the bottom of a river – settling quickly once stirred, a quiet murmur at the back of his mind like waves on the rocky shores – 

_What is dead may never die._

_What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger._

The crowds would chant that once the volunteers had stepped onto the stage, their hair wet with sea water. They do it now, as he watches the Islands’ Reaping. Some things don’t change.

When he was young, before Balon’s failed rebellion and the fallout of it, the words scared him. Now, they make him smile with a bitter twist. He smirks for things almost forgotten, for things taken without his leave. For the things he knows now.

They’re lovely words, but they’re a blind-fold over a lamb’s eyes. He can see that now. How better to incite children to volunteer for slaughter than to fill their heads with the warm light of glory and immortality and the Drowned God’s favor? 

Theon takes a mouthful of wine right from the bottle, and stands before the screen, taking in the scene without blinking. He rolls Robb’s ring from finger to finger in his free hand, metal clinking off the other rings he wears. It’s an absent gesture, a fidget he’s never been able to break. The wine does not slow his restless hands.

His father died screaming when the Mad King roasted him alive. They told him afterwards that all the realm saw it, how the unearthly green flames had burst Balon’s eyes like over-ripe grapes even as his skin blackened and peeled. The world had watched as Rodrik and Maron had been gutted, their bodies left far from the sea to rot. 

The worst part, Theon thought distantly, other than watching as it happened, was that _that_ had been Mad King’s mercy. His father had bent the knee when it was clear the other Districts wouldn’t rise with him, when it was clear help was not coming and their children would still die for entertainment despite his efforts.

This is the price of treason, the King had said. He’d been giggling when the wildfire was lit. 

Pyke had been burning, still, when Theon was taken from his mother’s side and put on a ship beside Ned Stark. Theon still saw the smoke in his dreams, still smelled the tang of the sea and the reek of smoke and wet wood. He still hears that high, sharp little giggle, though that had come afterward.

Theon flinches and chews the inside of his lip until the taste of blood washes away the wine and the memories. He breathes fast and light and tells himself he does not smell the wood-smoke as it consumed the Iron Fleet – the ragtag handful of ships his father had raised against the King – and he doesn’t hear the crackle of human fat as it cooked. He is still telling himself that when he focuses again on the television.

He does not see his mother when the camera pans across the crowd. He does, however, see Asha, standing tall and remote among the other Victors. Her expression could be carved from the crags of Pyke, for all the warmth and softness in it, and she is not beautiful, but she is striking, and vicious, and cold.

When he was taken, Asha looked like a fat little boy, with bad skin besides. Now, she looks exactly like what she is: a killer. A survivor. He isn’t the only one who changed in all his time away, and the realization makes him uneasy. She was fifteen to his ten when she won the Games – the year after the Rebellion. Theon’s always thought that it was the King’s will that she go, as there were no volunteers that year. To wipe out the Greyjoy line, he figures.

It took her seventeen days to be the last person standing. It took seventeen days for Theon to start breathing again, the fear in his chest easing enough to allow it.

(He remembers how the Stark had been disappointed when their tributes had fallen. A study of suppressed sighs and narrow looks and resignation. The boy had been a Karstark, the girl a Mormont. Asha had put a hatchet in one from twenty paces away, and the other drowned in a flash-flood. Robb had cried messy tears at their deaths, and Theon had told him not to be such a baby about it. It’d been harder than he ever wanted to admit to brush off Ned-and-Catelyn’s disapproving stares, their bland, half-hearted congratulations at his District’s win. The way Cat had glared when Theon cheered as his sister was air-lifted from the arena, bloody but alive.

Theon tries not to think about it.)

He wonders if his sister will be mentoring this year. He wonders if his sister will teach this year’s tributes how to kill him. He wonders if she will be satisfied if they do. Pleased. Another win for the Island District.

Theon drinks some more wine and tries not to wonder at all.

There’s a knock on the door, and Jeyne is wan and poised when he opens it. Her eyes are dry, though her face is still flushed splotchily and she scrubs at her cheeks with her sleeves. She’s wrapped the hair-ribbon around her left wrist, knotted prettily, and her hair is loose and tangled about her shoulders.

“Can I watch the rest with you?” she asks. Her voice is soft and hoarse. Theon snorts and turns away, retreating back into the darkened room. After a moment, he hears hesitant footsteps and the trundle of the door on its track as it slides closed.

“What did I miss?” she asks a moment later, when they are slumped down like broken dolls at the foot of his luxurious, untouched bed.

“All of it,” says Theon. He shrugs a little and glances at the television. “They’re recapping everything now, with commentary. Plus there’s still the time-to-die-for-glory-and-immortality speech the King always does.”

Her nose wrinkles and she rubs at her mouth, a quick, nervous gesture. “So it’s us and…?”

“A red-headed girl and a feral-looking bastard from the Islands,” says Theon. The girl had volunteered for a twelve-year old, and she strode up on stage with a vicious smile and a swagger in her hips. The boy is smaller, wry muscle with a certain sharpness. He hadn’t spoken to volunteer, but he punched the air and shoved forward when the Representative had asked. “They’ll be difficult – they’ve had the training.”

Another wince. Theon doesn’t waver, just keeps an eye on her. “Who else?”

“A whale of a girl, slow and weepy, and a dark-haired kid built like a bull, from the Crownlands,” says Theon. “The girl was well-off, the boy another bastard, I think, going by their dress.”

“Dorne?” asks Jeyne, glancing back toward the television for a moment, just long enough to see a reprisal of her own face, pale and drawn, just after her name was called. 

“Cousins, to hear Baelish talk about it.” Theon rakes his fingers through his hair. “A Sand Snake and the son of the Prince. Quentyn and, hell. Tyene, I think? Blonde-haired, blue-eyed. She looked sweet.”

“She’s the daughter of a victor,” Jeyne points out. “She’ll be anything but sweet. You know the Red Viper would have trained her.”

“Yeah, I know,” Theon sighs. Easy target? No, just wishful thinking. “The rest, though? The girl from the Riverlands looks like a stiff breeze will knock her over. Roslin Frey. The boy’s going to be more of a challenge. Mallister, is his surname. If he’s anything like the rest of his family, we’ll have to be careful.”

“The rest of his family?” asks Jeyne, her eyebrows knit. Theon flinches and rubs his mouth, looking away. The Mallisters are loyal to the crown. Very loyal. Rodrik had felt their steel in his stomach before one of them had gutted him beneath the outer walls of their fortress.

The Crown hadn’t stopped playing that footage for weeks. It took half a year before Theon stopped having nightmares.

“Nevermind,” he says briskly and wipes his face. “It doesn’t matter. Just keep an eye out for him.”

“Of course,” says Jeyne. She reaches out a small, soft hand and touches his knee and the warmth startles him. “Who else?”

“A girl with green hair and a sneer from the Reach. A pretty boy with a swagger and a powerful family name volunteered with her. Manderly and Tyrell,” says Theon, dull. He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs at his temples like this pain could be relieved. Coming from money means sponsors, means gifts from home in the arena. It means there was serious competition.

The odds stack up the more he speaks, breathed to life with every careless word. The deck is stacked, he knows, and never in their favor.

But he speaks anyway, forcing the words out from behind his teeth. He’s not a coward. 

“A beast of a girl from Tarth, a shrimp of a boy. Brienne and … Dyllan? Devan? A Seaworth, anyway. They were crying as they mounted the stage.” It seems important, that they wept. Easy targets, maybe, or just his own lack of tears. 

Jeyne squeezes his knee and he goes on, feeling the words without thinking about it, a distant, floaty feeling in his chest, an abyss yawning open in his mind and swallowing him down.

“Another bastard from the Vale, a well-built girl. Mya. And Harrold Hrdyng. He seems important, to hear Varys talk. An heir, or something, maybe. The girl from the Westerlands shouldn’t be a problem. Westerling, her name is. It’s the guy we have to look out for. Clegane, his name is. He’s a mountain made flesh. Gregor. He actually looked pleased to be called.”

He shudders, just a little, and he feels Jeyne tighten her grip.

“We’ll be fine,” she mutters, smiling faint and trembling. “If we can just outlast them, right, Theon? And sponsors, too. We’ll have them too, thanks to you. We’ll be – we’ll do okay.”

He opens his mouth to laugh at her, but the air gets trapped in his throat when there is a sudden, shrill laugh from the television. Their attention as one flicks to the screen.  
The Mad King, Aerys II, makes his address to the Kingdom as he does every year. He is flanked by his family – his solemn queen long dead, his children blank-faced and regal – while his eldest son’s wives and children kept in the background.

For a moment, Theon just tales them in – pale-haired and purple-eyed, all save Elia and Lyanna, and her boy, Jon. Like ink in a bowl of milk, he thinks. Or more accurately: _Rhaegar has a taste for brunettes._

He scoffs, but quietly, and ignores the glance Jeyne shoots him.

It’s an easy thing, to focus on the King’s tone and not his words. Theon’s had years of practice, with Ned Stark playing the father. His words pitch and toss like a shipwreck in a storm, uneven and jagged. His smile is a ruin, his eyes shine bright and mad. Theon doesn’t know how long he talks. What breaks him from his trance is a sudden motion – an outthrust arm, a laugh like the crackle of flames.

“— may I introduce, for the first time, a pair of volunteers from King’s Landing. The Capital is proud to host these two fine tributes, as keen as they are. May the odds be ever in your favor,” he adds, and it’s nearly sly.

The camera cuts to a pair of teens on a dais, lower than the royal family, but high enough to draw the eye of everyone gathered. The girl is slim and strong, her dark hair pulled into a braid and her smile sweet with a vicious edge, the boy makes Theon’s skin crawl. His eyes are pale and sharp, his thick-lipped smile unsettling in its intensity. They hold themselves like predators and Theon feels himself shudder.

Their names scroll across the bottom of the screen – **Myranda Bones and Ramsay Bolton; 16 and 18. Volunteers.**

“This can’t be good,” breathes Jeyne. All he can see are the whites of her eyes when he glances over, and they are over-bright and scared.

For once, he’s ready to agree with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter down - next up, King's Landing/the Capitol! 
> 
> Currently unbeta'd, so come shout at me if you spot something terribly wrong or disagree with the tribute choices or the worldbuilding. I'm on [tumblr](http://www.cheerynoir.tumblr.com/).


	5. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King's Landing isn't all it's cracked up to be. Theon would love to say he's surprised.

Inside the high, thick walls that have been standing since before the Games began, King’s Landing is as glorious as the broadcasts have always led him to believe. The people look clean and well-fed, and happy to see them, lining the sidewalks to catch a glimpse as they pass by. Theon figures there are cameras and straightens his back, pastes on a wry, disinterested smile. He takes Jeyne’s hand because she’s a frail thing, small, and he’d rather not have her ripped away from him before strictly necessary. Barbery and Walda bracket them, and armed guards, in turn, surround them. Theon keeps his eyes dead ahead and tries not to see any faces, tries not to think of running.

He focuses on the city instead: The streets are neat, the buildings high and solid. The Red Keep crouches on one high hill - well-defended, nigh-impregnable, the home of Kings - while a great bronze dome gleams atop a sister-hill. Looking at it, he can almost hear the cries of dragons long-dead and remade. There’s a Sept with seven massive crystal towers that they pass that looms over everything near like a giant among men, and Theon’s stomach turns over uneasily to see it.

_These aren’t my Gods_ , he tells himself. He looks away.

( _You have no Gods_ , he tells himself. _It’s been years since they heard you anyway._ )

The air smells of brine off the harbor, like fish and salt and sailors, but he can barely take it in before he and Jeyne are hurried from their train to the Tower where they’ll be staying until the Games begin. The lift they’re ushered into is made of glass or crystal, and Jeyne’s fingernails dig into his skin when the doors close and they start to rise. Theon, stomach swooping, glancing down, squeezes back. Beside them, Walda chatters and Theon tries to focus.

The words are meaningless – a happy sum-up of the city, all the sights they will not be allowed to see before they’re shoved into the arena. Theon tunes out again and squints at the far-off bronze dome that’s lit up like a miniature sun in the mid-morning light.

_Dragons,_ he thinks. _Fuck me. I can’t believe they brought them back._

The eighth floor is theirs, Barbery tells them, cutting Walda off mid-sentence as the elevator doors slide open. To explore as they please. 

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she says, and a chill works its way down Theon’s back. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood just to keep the discomfort off his face. “This might be the last time you have that luxury.”

“Well isn’t she cheery,” says Jeyne under her breath, as soon as they leave the room. There’s so much bitterness in her voice it’s a wonder she doesn’t choke.

Theon laughs, startled and sharp, and catches Jeyne’s quick, sidelong glance out of the corner of his eye. She’s smiling, just a little, crooked and dimpled and shy, and he’s a little bit struck by it. It’s the half-way kind of smile he’s seen in the Stark’s dining room over tea and lemon cakes, lost among the chatter of a family at rest, and it is utterly out of place here.

_She’s so fucking young,_ he thinks, and suddenly he can’t breathe through the lump in his throat.

_She doesn’t deserve this._

“Want to explore?” she asks, glancing down a long hallway, tastefully carpeted and dotted with art.

“Might as well,” says Theon, hoarse.

So they do. 

They find four bedrooms with connecting bathrooms bigger than Theon’s entire apartment, a dining room, a massive den, what must be a servant’s stairwell that leads to a roof-top garden, and a nook crammed with books, and something Theon can only assume is some sort of chapel. He does not enter the dim little room, but spots the seven familiar altars, along with a weirwood sapling in a red clay pot. The face in its trunk has been clumsily carved; Theon can still see the knife-marks under the bloody sap.

He scoffs louder than he meant to and Jeyne smacks his arm.

“Quit it. It’s nice that they would do that, I think,” she said.

“What, offered some final comfort before they sent us to die?” Theon asked. He rolls his eyes and pushes away. “Yeah. Real nice of them, Poole.”

She flinches away from him, and all at once he can feel the tension in the air thicken, the good mood they’d managed to cultivate slowly souring. He bites back a sigh and stuffs his fists in his pockets.

“Why do you have to be such a … such an asshole?” she asks. “I’m just trying to be nice!”

If this were any other time, any other person, Theon would laugh at her stumbling. As it was, he almost flinches. _Good going, Greyjoy,_ he tells himself. _You’re forcing a thirteen-year-old to literally cuss you out. Real big of you._

But he meets her eyes and raises his eyebrows in response. Let’s the absurdity of her question sink in. But Jeyne shakes her head and pushes her hair out of her eyes. Her hands are shaking.

“No. You don’t get to play that card. You can be an asshole to them,” she flings out a hand, gesturing at the city at large, gleaming and glittering eight stories below. “To anyone who put you here, Mister ‘I Volunteer’, you can hurt them as much as you want. But you don’t get to be mean to me – not when we’re in this together.”

Theon sets his teeth and straightens his back. There’s anger simmering low in his stomach, indignation and bitterness and rage with no outlet. He wants to yell at her, he realizes – he wants to scream and break something, wants to trash this opulent prison and get Jeyne in on it until she’s as angry over this as he is. He opens his mouth to snarl and—

His fingers curl around Robb’s ring, tucked away in his pocket. The metal is warm and solid. Grounding.

“Okay,” he says. It’s not that the anger is gone – he can still feel it raging in his chest and clawing up his guts like poorly-made moonshine. But it’s easier to think, easier to pin the blame on the people that deserve it: the government, and himself.

_You got yourself into this, Greyjoy. The least you can do is not make a teenage girl cry._

“Okay,” he says. He lets out a slow breath and feels his shoulders loosen and slump. “Fine. I’m— that was. It…”

“I accept your apology,” says Jeyne primly.

“Thanks,” says Theon. He winces, shifts his weight from foot to foot.

She smiles again, and Theon can’t look at her. She takes his hand and tugs, but gently. It takes everything in him not to flinch.

(The last time someone touched him kindly – before this ruin of a Reaping – was Robb, of course it was Robb, and thinking of him right now will do no good at all. It’ll do no good to recall the easy way he grabbed Theon’s sleeve to keep him tethered close as they checked the trap-lines together in the ironwood forest, not the way his mouth would curl around a sarcastic remark, not the full-body way he laughed. Not the way he’d cupped Theon’s nape just before they left the Stark house, lingering as the others moved toward the town square. “Hey,” he’d said soft. “Good luck today, alright? You’ve made it this long without being called. I doubt today will be any different.”  
Suddenly Theon’s emotions burn too hot, too fast, and tears are a useless expression, for all Theon wants and wants and _wants_. _The sea is full of salt-water, what do you need tears for_ , Rodrik had told him once, years ago, before The North and the Rebellion, before the fires and the steel. It stuck around long after his family was gone, and Theon grits his teeth and smiles instead, because he’s already dying for a Stark. He sure as hell won’t cry for one while he’s at it.)

“Come on,” Jeyne says, and it jerks him back to the present. Her hand is small and soft and nothing like Robb’s. It’s more of a comfort than Theon will ever admit. “I think they left out snacks. I’m starving.” 

They eat lemon cakes and drink honeyed lemonade until their stomachs ache and even the air tastes sweet, and even if this is terrible – and it is – Theon can’t help but think: _at least the food is decent._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's another one down. A bit fillery, but hopefully still alright, eh? 
> 
> Thanks a ton to my lovely beta, [Reyes](http://gaygreyjoys.tumblr.com/) for going over this with a fine-toothed comb.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://www.cheerynoir.tumblr.com/); come say hi.


	6. Meet the Stylists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Theon meets his stylists, hates his stylists, and oh, yeah, the Opening Ceremonies.

“Well it seems, traitor’s blood or not, you still want to be a part of our Games. Typical. Is it the glory that made you volunteer, Greyjoy? Nevermind – strip. Let’s see what we’re working with this year.”

It takes two minutes and thirty seconds before Theon wants to punch one of his stylists in the mouth. Lancel – his name is Lancel, and Theon wants to knock his teeth down his throat. 

It’s an urge he bites back – barely – and settles on a smile that feels decidedly unimpressed. Lancel’s eyes narrow. Theon takes a drip of pleasure in letting his clothes fall as he was told, kicking one of his boots a little further than he needs to, just to see Lancel scuttle after it. The satin of his tunic stretches across his back, and the bend is made awkward by the tightness of his leather pants. 

“Sure,” he says, as mildly as he knows how. He’s smirking, he knows he is, and he does not try to rein it in.

“You know, you can barely hear your Island accent,” says the fat woman running her hands through his hair to judge the length of it. Megga, her name is, and her hair and eyes are the same shade of amber-gold just to contrast the teal tattoos that snake down her neck and across her shoulders and arms. It’s a little bit hypnotizing, really. “That’s a point in your favor – they always sound so stupid, don’t you think, Shae?”

“You think everyone not from King’s Landing sounds stupid, you cow,” Shae replies without heat. Her long hair is unnaturally black and speckled with crystals that make Theon think of stars; her dress is pale pink linen so thin it’s vaguely see-through. She studies Theon’s body like meat, and the frank assessment in her gaze makes his skin crawl.

He wants to cover himself, he realizes, startled. It’s been a long time since he wanted to do that when he was naked. He knows that he’s easy on the eyes – and why wouldn’t he be proud of that?

“Like what you see?” he drawls, forcing his hands to linger near his sides. They titter.

“Well, we won’t need to use much wax,” says Megga with a big, bold laugh. She runs a finger down his chest, petting through his sparse chest-hair as she goes. “Another point in your favor.”

“It’ll hurt less,” finishes Shae brightly. “Now lay down. We have work to do and Taena hates being kept waiting.”

As it turns out hurting less is a relative term. Theon swears himself hoarse as they rip out his chest, leg, and pubic hair. He squeezes his eyes shut when they groom his eyebrows and fawn over the length of his eyelashes. He bites his tongue hard when they scrub the peeling skin from his lips, and spends the twenty minutes following that tasting blood. But ignoring them is easier than speaking, so he breathes through his nose and tries to pretend none of this is happening.

He’s been waxed and scrubbed raw, exfoliated and oiled, manicured and toned and moisturized and gods know what else by the time his head stylist makes an appearance.

Taena Merryweather is gorgeous in a very real, very present way that makes him think of rumpled bedsheets and long, hot showers and longer, hotter nights. He looks her over – her long legs, her dark eyes, the curl of her hair and the swing in her hips – and tries to tell himself that she is the enemy. He’d gladly take her to bed, if he’s honest with himself, just to see if those legs feel as good wrapped around his waist as he thinks they would, but that does not change the fact that she’s participating in the Games that are going to kill over a dozen children.

“Well you are a looker, aren’t you,” she says. “A diamond in the rough.”

She smiles, slow and sultry, and Theon’s heart trips in his chest. He is painfully aware of his own nakedness and the cut of her dress.

He manages a shrug and a smile that pulls up more on one side than the other. “We’ve all got our talents,” he says, and drags his gaze from her body to her face.

“And lucky for you, mine is packaging. Design,” she adds, like he hadn’t picked up on that. “Now, I know that the North usually has lumber as its theme for the opening ceremonies,” she starts, clapping her hands together briskly. “And I know that the whole weirwood-heart-tree-ironwood theme has been done to death. Frankly, it’s a stale idea. No one wants to see teens dressed as trees, do you follow? And the weirwood sap – striking, but utterly ghastly, I think. It looks like whoever’s wearing it has had their eyes gouged out.”

Three years ago, that had happened. The tributes from the North had been dressed as heart-trees, their eyes and mouths bloody with sap their skin whitened with paint. Four days into the games, the girl had her throat cut and the boy lost his eyes before he lost his life. The sap had looked more real than their blood.

“Yeah,” says Theon, delayed. He shifts his weight and tries not to feel grateful to these people when Shae passes him a pair of pants. He dons them hurriedly, glancing back to Taena. She’s turned her back, pacing away, and he can only follow, even as resentment bubbles in his chest. He feels exposed and vulnerable, his legs too-smooth when they rub against his pants. “The tree-headgear last year was pretty pathetic.”

She turns to him suddenly, her back to a spectacular spread laid out on a table set for two– a late lunch before the Opening Ceremonies.

“Exactly,” she says, and her grin is all secrets and slyness. “So I had the idea: well what do you do with lumber? You chop it down.”

“So, what, you’ll dress us as axes? Maybe a two-person saw?” he asks, and ducks around her to get to the meal. He eats standing, ignoring her pointed glance to sit.

“A lumberjack, actually,” she corrects with a sniff. She sips her glass of water and her lipstick leaves a plum print on the glass. 

Theon snorts. “And you think that’s going to be any more notable?”

Her eyes slid over him like warm oil, and he watches her as her gaze lingers on his shoulders, his collarbones, the muscle definition in his chest and stomach and thighs. Her smile is slow and pleased and satisfied – like he’s a toy that meets inspection. He tries very hard not to preen.

“Of course it is,” she says. “We’ll make it sexy, of course. The audience will love it.”

“Of course.”

***

She’s not wrong, in the end. Still, Theon glances at Jeyne and can’t help but raise his eyebrows.

“They forgot to give you pants,” he observes, and watches as she tugs at the hem of the flimsy-looking parka they gave her instead. It’s buttoned to her throat, but he gets the impression that there’s not a whole lot under it. All in all, it’s barely long enough to qualify as a tunic, to say nothing of a dress.

“That’s okay,” she says, eyeing him just as critically. “They must have given them to you – and I have your shirt.”

Touché.

Theon shifts his weight and hooks his thumbs through the climbing-harness framing his crotch. His pants are so tight and low-slung they’d be impossible to climb in, so the harness seems like a flimsy way to connect him back to lumber – another way, anyway. He’s wearing a parka in the same style as Jeyne’s, though his has no buttons and is cut to expose his chest.

They both end up shivering as a cool breeze blows, and tuck a little closer together.

“At least they didn’t try to light us on fire,” says Jeyne suddenly. “I mean – you burn wood too.”

Theon laughs before he can help himself. “Say what you want, but at least we’d be warm that way.”

“You—”

“Places, places,” cuts in Taena as she swans past. She waves a hand, Trysha as her heels, only to stop and study Theon for a long moment. Last minute touch-ups, he assumes, and tries not to touch his face. The amount of time they spent painting it with make-up, he figures even sweating will ruin their work.

“You look good,” says Taena, and hands him the handle of a hatchet that’s too small to be used on anything but saplings. “Props. Sling it over your back,” she adds, and touches the shaft. A blade appears as if by magic, wicked-sharp, and he stares. Her smile is a wry, secretive thing. “Only a hologram, I’m afraid. Can’t have you getting any ideas. But it’ll look real enough.”

Theon sighs and slings the almost-weapon across his back, and Taena follows it up with another. His eyebrows shoot up and something clicks into place.

“These are throwing hatchets,” he says as he slides the other one into place. Having two of them settles him – something about the even distribution of weight. “From the Islands.”

“That they are – a cute little nod to your roots. Tysha’s idea,” said Taena.

Theon nods, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

“Oh, and one more thing – bow your head.” Startled, Theon does and feels the chill of metal against his skin. The chain Taena hooks around his neck is thin but strong – steel, perhaps. “And that ring you’re always palming?”

It’s not a question, so Theon fishes Robb’s ring from his pocket and passes it over, begrudgingly. It settles over his chest, heavy and warm from his body. He shivers.

Distracted, he glances aside to see Jeyne being fitted with a larger axe that looks too solid for her to lift on her own.

She meets his eyes and lifts her chin a little.

We look ridiculous, she mouths, as soon as the stylists scatter and they’re left to clamber into their chariot alone.

He can’t exactly disagree, so he offers his hand instead. Their fingers interlace as the wheels start to turn, and by the time they go streaming past the howling crowds they clutch at each-other tightly, palm to palm. Her hand is hot and sweaty in his, but Theon does not let go. He glances out over the masses, and feels Jeyne tighten her grip as she does the same.

Theon plasters on a smirk – disinterested, sharp – and sees her do something similar from the corner of his eye. She smiles like she’s terrified and waves shakily with one hand. Theon rolls his shoulders and straightens his back. He lounges on two feet with the easy confidence he’s long since learned to project.

His free hand clasps the ring hanging around his throat.

The rest is a blur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Training! It goes about ass well as you'd expect, really.
> 
> Thanks a ton to my lovely beta, [Reyes](http://gaygreyjoys.tumblr.com/) for giving this a skim.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://www.cheerynoir.tumblr.com/); come say hi.


	7. Training Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly What It Says On the Tin. 
> 
> "We're fucked," says Jeyne. 
> 
> Theon isn't inclined to disagree, really.

Later, he sits squished between Walda and Barbery and watches the Opening Ceremony to a soundtrack of their criticisms. Jeyne, perching on the arm of the sofa, dunks sweet-rolls in hot chocolate and swallow her comments along with her snack. She’s gone through two mugs of chocolate and a half a basket of rolls. That, Theon figures, is a lot of carefully-minded words.

Her shoulders curl inward like burning paper and her entire body is tense and small because of their words, but she eats and drinks and nods, even as her face burns with embarrassment. Every word scalds her skin and she had the gall to thank them for it. She’s so earnest about it that it makes his teeth ache.

Theon couldn’t manage earnest for Robb, and he can’t manage it now.

(He thinks he could have managed it, once, when he was nine and small for his age, shivering at every biting breeze and light flurry of snow. He thinks he could have managed an earnest sort of desperation, a longing for _someone_ to love him, until a he’d been settled into the North for a fortnight. He thinks he could have managed earnest until:  
“Theon, you know why you’re here, don’t you?”  
“Because my father is a traitor,” parroted, he remembers. Something he’d memorized.  
“Yes. The King,” a grimace here, very slight, there and gone, maybe he dreamed it, “wants me to …look after you. Keep an eye on you.”  
“So why isn’t Asha here? Doesn’t she need an eye kept on her?”  
“The King though she would be best kept on the Islands. With an uncle.”  
“Oh.” The realization stung. Asha was not in some alien place where the air was too dry and too cold and every gust of wind cut through her clothes. She was at home, with an uncle that scared Theon half to death. He wondered, even now, which of them got the better deal, in the end.  
“Theon, I need you to listen to me.” But Theon had flinched when Ned made to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Are you listening?”  
“Yes.”  
“Do you know what happens to traitors?”  
“Yes.” He still had nightmares about the smell of burning hair. Still heard his father screaming.  
“Good. And do you know that treason – it can run in the blood?” Theon hadn’t said anything, then, because he hadn’t. “Theon. Do you know what will happen to you if the King finds out you’ve done something … wrong?”  
“….Is he going to. I – I. But I haven’t done anything! My father was the one – I just –”  
“I know. And Theon,” two heavy hands now, on his shoulders, weighing him down like iron. “If you don’t do anything wrong, nothing bad happens to you. Just be good, alright? Can you do that?”  
“Yes, Mister Stark.”)

But that was years ago. Theon gives his head a shake and smirks, because what else is there to do but grin and bear it?

“That’s bullshit,” Theon says around a mouthful of roll, cutting Wanda off mid-word. “And not our fault. The volunteers from this city were literally dressed in gold-dust and dragon scales. The girl from Tarth was dressed in, like, a handful of sapphires. They lit a pair of kids on fire – no idea how they managed that, for the record – and in light of that, I don’t think it’s unreasonable that no one paid us much attention.”

“Not unreasonable, no,” says Lady Dustin, her lips pursed. “But it is going to make getting you sponsors more difficult. I trust you realize how important that is? A sponsor-”

“I’m aware of how important having someone in your corner is,” says Theon. His eyes narrow and he lounges back. His smile is a jackal’s grin. “I wasn’t around the Islands long, but I picked up a thing or two.”

“We’ll see,” says his mentor, with an impressive side-eye. “And mind your tone.”

Mind it for me, he thinks with a vicious little smile, but he tips his head and lets his smirk flower into something sharp and ugly.

“As you say, Lady Dustin,” he says.

“Oh, hush, the both of you. You’re missing it,” says Walda. She flaps a hand in their general direction. Theon sighs, rolls his eyes, and shoots Jeyne a long-suffering look that she pointedly ignores.

***

Training starts the next morning. He’s been awake since the watery grey dawn had barely touched the horizon, and by ten AM his knee jitters when he sits. Walda fusses with the clothes they’re wearing – Theon, all in black, and Jeyne his inverse in pure white – and Barbery eyes them from over a mug of coffee. 

“Don’t play your hand too early,” she says to Theon. “They taught you to throw axes on the islands? Get reacquainted.” Her gaze flicks to Jeyne, who fidgets with the blue ribbon tied like a token around her left wrist. “An you? Do your best with the stations they’ll have – poisoned plants, edible ones, knots. Get familiar with knives, because they’re common in the arena, or a staff. You can usually make one if they aren’t provided. Save your true talents for the judges, because your scores there will impact who wants to sponsor you.”

It’s more common sense than actual advice, but it’s better than stony silence, so Theon will take it. It wasn’t like his type of archery is easy to do in a room full of people, anyway.

But they nod and Barbery turns away. Walda ushers them into the elevator and pushes the button for them.

“Be sure to drink enough water,” she says. “Hydration is important – and try to make some friends, hm? You never know when that can help in the arena.”

Theon figures it’s probably easier to kill someone when they hesitate over doing the same to you.

“Maybe this won’t be so bad?” says Jeyne on the way down. Theon grimaces and ignores the way his stomach still swoops at the plunge.

“I’m not holding my breath,” he mutters in reply.

They’re not the last ones down, but it’s a close thing. There are kids scattered about, uneasily silent, eyeing adults dressed in King’s Landing fashions with open suspicion.

Organizers, Theon figures. Gamemakers. Possible sponsors. 

His stomach turns over and he plasters on a smile. He feels Jeyne press closer – half a step behind, half a step to the left. He turns his body in her direction, just a touch, and doesn’t stop scanning the crowd.

Both the tributes from the islands are here already, the red-haired girl braiding her hair back, the boy eyeing a rack full of axes. The mountain of a girl from Tarth can’t keep still, and she looks so uncomfortable it almost makes Theon want to start twitching too. Her partner doesn’t even look at her. He’s too busy inching his way towards the knot-station.

The only pair about that’s actually speaking look to be the one from the Riverlands. They stand close together, heads bowed, and their words are too low to carry. But, Theon thinks, they do not look like much. The girl is young and small and terribly pretty; dark-hair and fair skin and red lips, like something out of a song. The boy, the Mallister, is tall and broad-shouldered, true, and his skin is sun-kissed, and his frame well-muscled, but the Riverlands do not train their children to kill.

He wonders if there are already sponsors lining up for them. They’re too pretty not to have at least one person with more money than sense sniffing around.

“Theon, you’re staring.”

“I’m taking in the competition, Poole.”

“Like, really intently. I think he’s going to notice soon.”

Theon glances over his shoulder to frown at her, and Jeyne relaxes visibly. But he’s saved from answering when the lift swishes open to reveal a crowd of tributes and the training session officially begins.

“We’re fucked,” says Jeyne twenty minutes later.

Theon doesn’t blink, doesn’t drag his eyes from where Clegane is hacking apart a solid oak training dummy with a broadsword. He’s not even breathing hard. He makes it look easy. 

He’s not the only competition they’re going to have, but he’s one of the flashier ones.

Fucking Careers. It makes him wonder about Jeyne Westerling, though. She doesn’t look like a threat at all, barely knows her way around a knife, and he wonders why no one volunteered in her place, for the glory if nothing else.

“Mm,” says Theon, faintly. He seriously considers taking a swing at Clegane with the staff in his hand, but he’s pretty sure that even if he manages to concuss him, it’s only going to piss him off. That, and he doesn’t want to deal with what the Gamemakers would do to Robb back home, for his disobedience. They’ve always got leverage, to get you to play along – everyone has someone they care about.

“I think,” says a voice from Theon’s right. “That we’re going to have to team up if we want to take that mountain down.”

Theon turns, bristling, but Mallister just rocks back on his heels and holds up his hands, placating. His girl, the tiny one, lurks in his shadow, just watching.

“Looks like,” says Theon, and inclines his head a little. “Or we could just wait for the arena to kill him.”

“You really want to leave that to chance?” asks Mallister. He grins, crooked and easy. 

“Not particularly, but I’d rather not get cut in half, either,” says Theon, because it’s the truth. He shifts his weight and narrows his eyes, smirks a little like he’s kidding. Mallister chuckles.

“True enough. I’m Patrek,” he says, and sticks out his hand. “And this is Ros – Roslin.”

Theon just stares at his hand for a long moment, debating, before he flicks his gaze dismissively back to Mallister’s face. After a second, smile falling, Mallister retracts his hand.

_Good._

“Theon,” he says. He tips his chin, “Jeyne. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but…” Theon trails off, pointed.

Another laugh, and it doesn’t sound forced at all. Either the kid is slow or he’s a better actor than Theon ever gave him credit for. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Mallister says, and hooks his thumbs through his belt-loops. “Look, I’m going to level with you, Theon. The way I see it, the Careers are going to end up hunting us down like they always do – we may as well band together this year, make it a little more difficult for them, hey?”

It’s not a terrible strategy, Theon will give him that. Strength in numbers, and all that.

“There are less of them,” he allows, glancing about. The four of them drift to the fringes of the room – not good TV, but hopefully no one will notice, while there’s a simulated bloodbath going on twenty feet away. “It’d be easy enough to gang up on them, overwhelm them with numbers.”

“Exactly,” says Mallister. He looks rather pleased.

“We’ll do it,” blurts Jeyne suddenly, and Theon turns in surprise.

“We’ll think about it,” he cuts in with a sharp look. “And get back to you, how’s that?”

“Good enough,” says Mallister. “See you around.”

Roslin offers Jeyne a tiny smile before she follows Mallister off – probably to harass another pair of unfortunates. Theon rounds of Jeyne the moment they’re gone.

“What in the seven hells was that, Poole?”

“We need allies in this,” she argues, careful to keep her voice low. “You know we do.”

“Why? To have even more people around to stab us in the back?”

“To keep that from happening, until we can delay it,” she whisper-shouts. “We can’t do this alone, Theon!”

He snaps his mouth shut at her yell and glances around, glaring at anyone who think it’d be a good idea to look their way.

“We’ll talk about this later, back on our floor,” he hisses, and straightens up to his full height.

He doesn’t give her time to reply, just strides off and leaves her to her training.

***

Re-learning the art of the throwing axe is no easy thing. Unlike archery, he hasn’t tried to keep up with it, and it’s been a long time since Nuncle Dagmar had stood behind him, telling him the best way to stand and how to breathe.

The weight isn’t even familiar anymore, he realizes, holding the hatchet loosely. There’s something – distressing about that. He’s more used to compensating for the heft of the axe, his muscles built more for a full-body swing to take down an ironwood tree than to plant the blade into a target twenty feet away.

But he takes a breath and squares his shoulders, and tries to recall what had been said. He’d had four years of instruction in this before he’d left the Islands. Surely there has to be something left in his muscle-memory.

His first throw is a pathetic thing. The throw is off, the spin wrong – the axe hits the top corner of the target handle-first and bounces off with a ringing clatter. Theon bites the inside of his cheek and forces himself to relax.

_You’re fine,_ he tells himself. _It’s been nine years, more or less. It’s normal that you’re – rusty. Just do it again. Do it right. You_ need _to do this right._

So he gets the axe, ignores the snickering coming from the unwanted peanut gallery, and throws. Again and again and again, from his left and his right, until he can at least his the target and make it stick. His stance is fucked, he knows, but he’s managed to make it work. He can’t hold himself like he used to when he was six.

After an hour, someone joins him at the range, and Theon catches a glimpse of red from the corner of his eye. Without a word, the red-head from the Islands -- Hagan's girl, he realized suddenly; the daughter of a victor -- picks up a hatchet, tosses it up into the air as if to test the weight, and sends it end-over-end into the furthest target. Her smile is a thin, vicious thing, and Theon tries to ignore his sudden stab of envy.

He watches her from the corner of his eye instead, and finds himself making minute changes. His shoulders set, his stance widens a little. He puts more power into the throws, let’s himself relax a touch.

They’ve fallen into a rhythm by the time they break for lunch. For half a heart-beat when they’re hanging their weapons back on the rack that their eyes meet. Theon smiles – it’s an automatic thing, even when he’s out of breath and adrenaline is flooding him– and pushes his hair back from his face.

“Theon,” he says.

“Esgred,” she replies. “You’re not half bad, for someone gone green.”

It stings, but he’ll take it.

When she and her partner settle across from Theon and Jeyne at their table, he swallows his surprise with a mouthful of water.

“Well this is a party, innit?” comes another voice, and Mallister and Roslin fall into the free seats easily.

Jeyne shoots him a look and Theon shrugs one shoulder, faintly baffled. They pass the time filling their faces and talking about nothing in particular – it’s easy. Mallister likes to talk, and he’s easy to talk to. Esgred, she’s sharp and funny, and even Wex – her partner, a mute – laughs soundlessly at her jokes.

“She’s good with poisons,” Jeyne says in undertone, glancing toward Roslin when lunch ends and they go back to their training. “We spent a while touring the stations together. She’s nice.”

Nice doesn’t meant she won’t kill us in our sleep, Theon does not say. He figures Jeyne already knows.

“Esgred’s useful,” he says in reply. “Don’t know about Wex though.”

“We’ll figure it out,” says Jeyne. She catches his hand and squeezes it briefly before she heads toward the mats and the instructor. Towards someone willing to teach her how to use a knife.

Theon gives his head a shake and turns away. It’s been too long since he’d had cause to try a decent knot, anyway.

He loses himself in training for the rest of the day – nothing flashy, really, but something useful. They’ve only got three days, after all.

Still, he can’t help the long looks he gives the archery kit. He’s going to have to get used to something more advanced than the weirwood bow he’s been using since he came to the North, and he knows that trying for the first time in front of judges and sponsors alike is not going to end in his favor. 

He can’t see any alternative. 

He’ll make it work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's one more down. And this is an odd case - only half this chapter has been beta'd due to my glitchy computer and my own impatience. Edits to follow.
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr, or tell me what you think here, hey?
> 
>  
> 
> Next up: A secret meeting or two, and Interviews.


	8. Release the Scores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days of training bleed past. Theon can't sleep. Patrek Mallister keeps him company, to their mutual satisfaction.
> 
> (Never let it be said that Theon Greyjoy was a selfish lover)
> 
> And now it's time to impress the judges -- within reason.
> 
> (Also: Stark Family cameo. You're welcome)

Three days flicker past in a blink. Theon eats better than he has in months – goes back for seconds and thirds as often as he can manage – and counts the hours. The ring Robb gave him is a warm, solid reminder of the things he needs to do. He has to give it back somehow, living or dead. He has to go back North.

(He has to go _home_ – but that’s a whisper, easily quashed.)

He wanders up to the rooftop through a servant’s entrance when he can’t sleep, which is often. There are gardens, and the view is a little less overwhelming in the dark, despite the lights.

Theon begins to think this city never sleeps.

The first night, he gets as close to the edge as he dares. Ten feet below, there are nets that sway gently in the breeze.

Theon laughs until his voice breaks. 

It figures that jumpers don’t make good television.

The third night, when the moon is full and bright and he aches from another day of training, he trips over Patrek Mallister, and forgets that there could be cameras hidden in the patio tiles. He stares down at what will be his competition, takes in the slice of his sun-kissed belly where his shirt has ridden up and the tired way he’s sprawled among the heather that spills over onto the walkway. He looks rumpled and sated, like he slept the night in someone else’s bed.

Theon’s stomach flips. There’s a low heat sparking in his belly.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Mallister asks. His teeth gleam damply in the moonlight, and his voice is a low, sleepy thing.

“Could ask you the same,” Theon replies.

“Better things to do with my time than sleep,” says Patrek. He untucks one of his hands from behind his head to gesture languidly. “Join me?”

He has nice hands – thick fingers and calloused palms. Theon’s throat clicks dryly when he swallows. “What?”

“Lay down,” says Patrek. He laughs softly. “The stars are bright tonight.”

Theon stretches out beside him. The heather smells sweet and green, the grass tickles his back through his shirt where it pokes up between the tiles. He shifts for a while, getting comfortable.

(Patrek is warm and solid, close enough to touch. Theon curls his fingers in the grass and stares at the sky, ignoring, ignoring.)

“Isn’t that the Moonmaid?” he asks after a moment, husky. He points to a scattering or stars to the far right of the moon. “Pity the red wanderer isn’t about. Isn’t that supposed to be good luck?”

It’s hard to believe these are the same stars as back North; that they both know the same constellations.

Patrek hums sleepily. He points to the brightest star in the sky. “And there’s the Ice Dragon’s eye. North and north again. Bet you wish you could follow it home, huh?”

Theon racks his brains, but there’s little else. Of all the Starks, it was Bran who knew the stars and Sansa who knew their stories. There’s a smattering of stars he thinks might be the Crone’s Lantern, but it’s been a very long time since Theon had to navigate the open sea, and longer since anyone taught him.

Silence lulls them, rocking sweetly. Theon shuts his eyes for a moment. In the blackness, the night is warm, and a man breathes slowly beside him. He could be anyone.

(He could be Robb.)

“You know,” says Patrek an eternity later. The illusion shatters like thin ice, and Theon blinks his eyes open. The stars glitter down at him, faintly mocking. “There are worse things to look at, when you could be dead in a week.”

Theon turns his head just enough. Patrek watches him through hooded eyes.

Theon’s mouth goes dry. The corners of his mouth quirk.

“Smooth,” he says, and means it. It’s not a line he would have chosen, but he respects a guy who can make it work.

Patrek grins back, an easy arrogance in it. “They tell me I’m charming.”

Patrek makes it work.

It’s almost like looking in a mirror.

Theon scoffs and levers himself up on one elbow. “Hardly.”

“Hey, now, if you can do better…”

It’s an invitation, and not a subtle one. Theon licks his lips. There’s an ache in his chest, dull and wanting, and he can’t resist,

It’s been so long since Kyra and her keys. Since Ros. It’s been so long since he has felt _wanted_.

“Fuck it,” says Theon and lunges.

Patrek meets him half-way, fire in his blown-black eyes.

The moon is bright enough to see by, bright enough that Theon can clearly make out how pale Patrek looks painted in silver once he shucks his shirt and kicks out of his jeans like they’re on fire. Theon bites a line of bruises along his collarbones and laughs when Patrek grabs his ass and shoves his sweats impatiently down.

“Smooth,” he says again, pants tangled around his knees. His laughter hitches in his throat when Patrek gets a hand on him, his mouth slick on his neck.

“Good enough for you, though,” Patrek says, smug and hot against his ear. Theon groans and bites him in reply.

They don’t kiss. They twist and roll, fighting for dominance in other ways. Their breath comes sharp and fast, muffled against shoulders or palms, legs tangled. Theon lands hard on his back and arches wordlessly, biting his tongue until blood wells up.

Teeth score across his neck and Theon groans like he’s dying, bucking into the slick fist Patrek has made, dimly aware of the filth Patrek mumbles in the shell of his ear.

It doesn’t take long, really. Orgasm crests over him like a wave, and when Theon comes back to himself, Patrek is grinding against his thigh. He whimpers when Theon flips them over and moans raggedly when Theon sprawls out across his thighs and pushes him flat into the heather by a solid grip on his hips. Theon’s mouth waters, but he goes slow, getting his mouth on Mallister’s prick. There’s enough skin to keep him distracted on his meander down Patrek’s torso. He tucks a smirk against the other boy’s ribs and sucks at his hip, content to leave a mark.

He wonders how long he can drag this out. The next moment Patrek puts his hands in Theon’s hair and yanks.

“You godsdamned tease, fuck, just suck me.”

It’s – well.

The words make Theon’s spent cock twitch with interest and shame curl uneasily in his stomach.

But.

There is very little Theon takes pride in. He can swim well, he’s fast on his feet, and his aim is fantastic. And sex – well, Theon’s worked very hard to make sure he was good   
in bed. He’s made partners scream with just his tongue and his fingers, and he’s always been good with his mouth.

There’s something calming about this – his nose full of the smell of another boy’s musk, his mouth full of hot, hard skin, the taste of soap and salt. Patrek’s hands in his hair, yanking, disrupting his pace, send shudders down Theon’s spine. He could pull away, but that feels too much like quitting for his tastes.

(“Theon, fuck – I – I’m-”

A sharp glance, a flick of his tongue. 

_Give it._ )

Instead, he spits when Patrek comes in his mouth, and rubs his raw lips with the inside of his wrist. Like that will get rid of the taste.

“Fuck,” says Patrek faintly. He hauls Theon up by the hair and rests their foreheads together. “Damn, Greyjoy. Warn a guy next time, huh?”

Theon just hums in vague acknowledgement. His jaw aches, his lips tingle. But he can’t seem to stop grinning, exhausted and happy.

They dress and part ways before the horizon starts to lighten, the smell of crushed heather and grass clinging to their skin.

Looking back, Theon almost wonders if he dreamed it.

But the bruises tend to convince him otherwise, and he finds himself pressing on them at odd moments.

He can’t help but be grateful Mallister didn’t try to kiss him. 

Theon always got attached too easily.

 

#

 

“You look like you haven’t slept,” says Jeyne quietly on the fourth day. They’ll stand before the panel of judges, gamemakers and sponsors today to show their worth. For now, they lurk, waiting their turn.

It makes his stomach churn. Theon presses the tips of his fingers to a bruise on his hip, and the flare of pain grounds him a little.

“I haven’t,” he says. He flashes a tired grin. “But it’s alright. How do you think your chances are?”

Jeyne bites her lip and worries at the blue ribbon tied around her wrist like it’ll ward off bad luck.

“Dunno,” she says at last. “I hope it’ll be alright. I have a grasp on plant life and knots, and I think I’m doing okay with the knife. It’s just a matter of if it will be enough, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” says Theon. He rakes his fingers through his hair. “But if you shoot for the middle of the pack, you should be alright. A sponsor or two if you’re lucky, and you won’t stand out. There won’t be a target on your back for the careers.”

She smiles a little and leans into his space. Theon puts an arm around her without thinking. She is warm and slight, and her hair smells of daffodils.

“What about you?”

“Me?” asks Theon. He snorts softly. “I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about me, Poole.”

“Too late, Greyjoy.” 

Barbrey and Walda wait with them, both uncharacteristically quiet. It sets Theon’s teeth on edge, but he keeps an arm around Jeyne and tries not to think too hard.

“Do what you can,” says Walda before Jeyne is called away, and envelops them both in hugs that are both soft and smothering. Theon fights free after a moment, tense.

“Make peace with whatever God you believe in,” Barbrey says, dry as grave-dust.

Theon snorts a laugh, and Jeyne tucks her face into Theon’s shoulder for a moment.

“Northern girl – you’re up!” 

“Good luck,” Theon says. Jeyne clings to his hand for a moment, white-knuckled, before he shakes her loose and sends her on her way.

The next ten minutes are insufferably long. Theon fidgets with his hair, his clothes, and still cannot get comfortable.

At last, she stumbles free, looking clammy and pale. Her hair wisps from the braid her stylists decided on, stuck to her sweaty forehead and reddened cheeks.

“Well?” he asks. His grabs her shoulders to steady her, and her hands find his wrists and clamp down. She’s shaking finely, adrenaline or nerves, he can’t be sure, and her grip is like iron.

“I – I don’t know,” she says all at once. “I think I did okay?”

“Northern boy, you’re-”

“I heard you,” Theon snaps. “Fuck off.”

“Greyjoy,” says Barbary from the corner of her mouth, cold and sharp.

“Sorry,” says Theon, brisk and insincere. Jeyne lets go of his wrists and he straightens his clothes. 

“Remember,” Jeyne says. “Middle of the road.”

“Or a little above,” Theon replies with a wink. “Something has to make up for my abysmal form.” He glances at his guide, “Well then?”

The capitol minion sees him quickly to the door and no further.

Seven hells.

He straightens his hair once more and takes a deep breath. The back of his neck itches from the weight of someone staring.

People or camera? He can’t tell – doesn’t want to tell.

He squares his shoulders, tips up his chin, and walks into the judge’s quarters without letting himself look back.

It’s a long, brightly lit room that reminds Theon of a slaughterhouse. The air doesn’t reek with the smell of blood, but the wayward glances from the panel of judges make him uneasy. He wipes his palms on his pants and forces himself to ignore them. 

There is twenty of them, mostly men, mostly gaudily dressed or swathed in King’s Landing fashion. The platform they it on is curtains with a pale net of shimmery light – some sort of force-field, he figures. Ignoring them is easier said than done, but Theon surveys the room.

There are mats and training dummies and targets, ropes for knotting and plants for identifying and all the materials for do-it-yourself camouflage are utterly untouched. The station that looks most-used is the weapons rack. Swords, maces, staffs and slings all are stored neatly. Bows and arrows, too.

Theon relaxes a little to see them, and makes his way over quickly, rolling his shoulders. There’s a weirwood long-bow that looks similar to the one he’s used to, bone-white, its arrows fletched with bloody red feathers.

He cracks his neck and picks it up. Taking his place and shifting his stance, he sighs along the arrow shaft to better see the target. 

The first arrow he nocks smoothly, but the shot is off, the draw a little heavier than he expected. The next three are the same – good shooting, but not up to his usual standard.

A warm-up, he tells himself. It’s a warm-up and little more, even when he has no time.

His skin crawls and he doesn’t look at the panel of silent men with their hard, cold eyes.

Theon takes a breath and lets it out slowly. His shoulders loosen.

_Your form is fucked, you’re no good standing still. May as well make the best of it._

Theon takes three arrows in is draw hand, leaves his post, takes off at a run. He glances back, doing the math as he moves. The dummy stares with sightless eyes.

Now that he’s moving, things fall into place. The draw is still hard, but he compensates. The arrow hits the right side of the bow, and both his eyes are open when he draws and fires in one smooth move.

Centre mass shot.

He does it again on the next step.

Heart shot.

He’s getting close to the wall now. Theon picks up speed rather than turn. He launches himself up, pushes off a wall, and fires in mid-air while he turns. 

Lung shot.

He doesn’t let himself smirk yet. Just loops back for more arrows and does keeps going. 

His target vary – the dummy, the sand-bag’s chain, whatever catches his eye between breaths. He sways on the spot and picks up the paper plates used for mixing paint, tossing them up and shooting them down. Speed it key – speed and accuracy.

It’s as familiar as breathing.

He forgets, for a moment. The Games, the panel, King’s Landing and its glittering horrors. He forgets.

How often had he done this with Robb in the woods? Trick shots and speed-shooting after they’d checked the trap-line and bagged rabbits or squirrels?

Gods.

Robb laughing and throwing clods of dirt at his head, the delight on his face when Theon shot them out of the air.

“Where did you learn this?” he’d asked once.

“The Islands are a career district,” Theon had replied, smirking. “They start us young – I was five when my father put a hatchet in my hand.”

It had been Dagmer Cleftjaw, actually, and his smile when Theon had first split a target had warmed him for days. 

But Robb didn’t need to know that.

“Your time is up, Greyjoy.”

Theon startles. His hands are empty. The floor is littered with targets and arrows. The bow is heavy in his hand.

He jerks his gaze to the panel, and cannot read their expressions.

He does not bend the knee, he does not bow. Theon rakes his eyes over them all – his gaze catches for a second on a lead, severe man with eyes like dirt ice – before he jerks his chin, drops his weapon, and walks away.

The door closes behind him, and Theon tries to block out the roaring in his ears.

 

#

 

“You’re missing it, you’re missing it!”

Robb takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. His mouth tastes of blood from all the times he’s bitten his tongue to keep from scolding his brother in the last handful of days. Rickon is young enough that the Games are exciting to him.

The fact that Theon now gets to ‘play’ has caused him no end of pleasure. He wants to watch him win, Robb figures.

There’s a lump of lead in his stomach, a knot in his throat. Robb rubs his eyes, straightens his back, and makes his way into the den, where the rest of his family is gathered.

Baelish and Varys the spider are still talking on screen, their voices light and easy as they discuss tributes and chances and really, the Opening Ceremonies were a peach this year, weren’t they? Just divine.

Rickon looks to be the only one who wants to be here, tucked in close between Mother and Bran. Even Arya’s picking at her fingernails and grinding her teeth.

“He’s going to win, I know,” Rickon’s saying with a child’s faith. Robb almost envies him for a moment.

Mother smooths a steady hand through his hair. “Hush, Rickon. Not just now.”

As he makes a bee-line for his father’s chair, he manages to catch Sansa’s gaze. Her eyes are red and raw, her face blotchy from crying. Robb’s pretty sure he doesn’t look much better. He clasps her shoulder as he passes and attempts a smile.

She doesn’t return it.

Robb can’t blame her.

He leans against the back of his father’s armchair and stares holes in the television screen.

He is distantly grateful that they have been allowed this shred of privacy. If he had to watch this is the town square, he doesn’t think he’d be able to do it.

Not on top of how the King’s Landing reporters have started to swarm, demanding sound-bites and stories.

A hush falls over the den when Baelish announces that they’ll begin showing the scores.

Robb’s knuckles pale where he grips his father’s chair.

“Easy,” Ned rumbles. He fixes his eyes on the screen, sharp an steady and oh-so tired.

There are names and clips and Robb pay attention. There’s a rushing in his ears that might be breath or blood and he can’t focus.

Names and numbers seem to blur together. Robb watches the names and scores scroll across the bottom of the screen without hearing a word from the commentators.

_Myranda Bones: 8/10, Ramsay Bolton: 9/10; Lollys Stokeworth: 2/10, Gendry Waters: 7/10; Brienne Tarth: 8/10, Daven Seaworth 5/10; Tyene Sand: 4/10, Quentyn Martell 5/10; Wylla Manderly: 5/10, Loras Tyrell 9/10; Jeyne Westerling: 4/10, Gregor Clegane: 10/10; Roslin Frey: 3/10, Patrek Mallister: 6/10; Esgred Hagen: 7/10, Wex Pyke: 7/10; Mya Stone 7/10, Harrold Hardyng: 8/10._

Robb’s breath hitches in his chest. One set of tributes left.

Play it safe, he prays. Please. Not too low or too high – please, just a five. Maybe a six. Please please please-

_Jeyne Poole: 5/10_

Everyone in the room let’s out a sigh of relief. Robb’s shoulders loosen and his knees feel weak. He watches from the corner of his eye as his father toasts the television screen with a glass of whiskey and ice.

It’s an old tradition – toasting for safe or happy outcomes. A swig straight from the bottle for poor ones.

There’s one left.

_Please. A five. Just get a five. Play it safe for once, Theon, please-_

Robb feels a moan rip from his throat as the final tribute’s score flickers across the bottom of the screen. He’s dimly aware of Baelish and Varys sounding pleased, of his own sharp and shaky breathing.

His knees give a little and it’s only his white-knuckled grip on the back of the arm-chair that keeps Robb standing.

Because there, painted clear as day, is the target on his best friend’s back.

_Theon Greyjoy: 9/10_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this took forever and a fucking half, didn't it? Hopefully things will be more regular in the upcoming months.
> 
> I think my writing style has changed a fair bit since the first chapters. Love it, hate it, tell me either way, kay?
> 
> Side note: The Games are basically a gory, traumatizing reality show, or at least that's how I'm playing it here. Long story short: it's up to the readers to decide how much of the sex scene was aired as a "primer" or to supplement gossip/stats with Littlefinger and Varys.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://www.cheerynoir.tumblr.com/); come say hi.


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